


Vanilla

by Ludwiggle73



Series: Christmas Tidbits [1]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Christmas Eve, M/M, Missionary Position, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-25
Updated: 2019-12-25
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:07:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21947053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ludwiggle73/pseuds/Ludwiggle73
Summary: Mikkel has Bjørn for dessert.
Relationships: Denmark/Norway (Hetalia)
Series: Christmas Tidbits [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1580215
Comments: 8
Kudos: 28





	Vanilla

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Shadowcatxx](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shadowcatxx/gifts).



> For my first fanfic friend. Glory be to the Saint <3

Mikkel was alone.

Not that he minded; the cell wasn’t spacious enough for more than one man. It was less of a cell and more of a closet, really, but he’d slept in much worse places over the course of this war. At least he was warm, dry, and—because of his rank, he suspected—likely better fed than many of the enemy soldiers based here. Three meals a day. He hoped his men, wherever they’d ended up in his absence, were living as well as he was.

Some might call him a traitor for being captured, for _allowing_ himself to be captured. He’d considered that label himself, until he’d been acquainted with the man who was to be his cell guard and keeper until the conflict found its end.

Keys jingled in the door. Mikkel sat up on his cot—pathetically small, his feet hung over the end when he slept—and smiled when the door swung open. “Ah, to what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Dinner,” said Bjørn, closing the door with his elbow and stepping over to set the metal tray down on Mikkel’s lap.

“Christmas dinner,” Mikkel corrected. The tray always had a lid even though the food was never warm . . . but when he lifted it this time, a cloud of steam rose to meet him. There was turkey, mashed potato, even some pathetic green beans, and all of it drenched in gravy. Mikkel’s empty stomach roared, so he spoke over it. “You’ve outdone yourselves.”

Bjørn sat down beside him, arms crossed over his chest. “I can see you drooling. Just eat, Commander Densen.”

Mikkel caught his gaze for a split second, the sparkle of those violet eyes. Then he dove in, making short work of the turkey even as the gravy burned his fingertips. They wouldn’t give him cutlery. Nothing that could be used as a weapon. Even this tray was dangerous, but he’d proven himself trustworthy.

_Do you trust me?_

_Mick—_

“Everyone’s left,” Bjørn said at length. “They’ve all gone out to drink, or be with their families. The enemy actually agreed to a ceasefire for Christmas.”

Mikkel smiled faintly as he chewed. How many different things _the enemy_ could mean, depending who was speaking, and to whom, and when. “That’s wonderful.”

Bjørn actually looked a little surprised, then nodded. “Yes, it is. We’ve earned a bit of peace.”

Mikkel licked the last of the gravy from the plate and set the tray on the floor. “And why haven’t you gone to visit family?” he asked, eyes lingering on those pale lips. “Lieutenant Lukas Bondevik?”

Bjørn’s eyelids lowered, just a little; he’d never been able to handle hearing his cover on his love’s lips. Too much fantasy and reality blending, he said. Imagine his dismay when Mikkel was captured by the very people Bjørn had been spying on since the war began.

“You know why,” Bjørn replied, his voice a low rasp. “My family is right here.”

Mikkel moved to embrace him, but Bjørn held up a hand. “Wait. I nearly forgot.” From an inner pocket of his uniform’s jacket, Bjørn produced a bundle of precious plastic. He unwrapped it and with deft fingers revealed a thin slice of white cake, topped with the miracle of icing. Bjørn reached his free hand to tap Mikkel’s jaw—for it had dropped significantly at the sight—and smiled fondly. “Dessert.”

Mikkel broke off a small piece. “This can’t be for me.”

“The officers of my division were given a cake to celebrate the holiday.” Bjørn looked into Mikkel’s eyes. “And now I give it to you. It’s a blessing to be able to give something nice.”

Mikkel smiled. “Then allow me to share this blessing.”

Bjørn opened his mouth to respond and Mikkel placed the bit of cake onto his lips. He’d never been one for sweets, unlike Mikkel, but this was a rarity. To refuse it could be to never taste this vanilla bliss again. So Bjørn took it, savored it, then fed Mikkel a mouthful. The sliver of cake was gone swiftly, but Mikkel was determined to get every trace he could. He licked the icing from his fingers, then from Bjørn’s, sucking each one into his mouth and lathing it with his tongue.

Their eyes met. Bjørn’s words echoed. _They’ve all gone._

Mikkel devoured Bjørn’s lips. It had been such soft torture, seeing his angel in this hell every day. He was alive and safe, and yet Mikkel could not touch him. How many nights had he gone to sleep, fingers sticky and mind filled with images of that perfect skin. He squeezed Bjørn’s hips now and groaned into his neck. He’d lost weight with the war, just like everyone else. This was why he’d forbidden Bjørn from becoming a soldier so many years ago. Mikkel could not escape the draft, but they would accept Bjørn for other, safer work. He had been thinking of nursing or office clerking, but of course Bjørn had gone and become an agent. Still, Mikkel knew that’s why he loved him. Bjørn knew what he wanted, and he got it.

“Mick,” gasped Bjørn as strong arms urged him down onto the floor. “We can’t—”

Mikkel lowered himself on top of Bjørn, tugging at his unbuttoned uniform so he could slip his tongue into the dip of his collar bone. “Why not?”

“We don’t _have_ anything.” Bjørn took Mikkel’s chin in his hand, so he would have no choice but to see him, hear him. “I can’t do anything to risk my cover.”

But he could, or he wouldn’t have volunteered to feed the POW.

“We had nothing the first time,” Mikkel whispered. “Do you remember?”

Of course, they both did. On the old swing, under the dogwood trees. Bjørn’s parents were gone to a social in town. It started as hands, then became something more. Became everything. Bjørn was silent through it all until the very end, when he finally cried out, and it was that beautiful sound that had Mikkel filling him. That was the summer before all of this began, the last summer of innocence. When Mikkel heard his boys talk about their sweethearts back home, he never said a word. Bjørn had always been with him. Now, that truth just ran deeper.

The bittersweet light of nostalgia came into Bjørn’s eyes. He let his legs spread, working his hips upward into Mikkel’s. He kissed him, even as Mikkel unbuttoned both of them, even as Mikkel’s hands slipped between them. Bjørn’s lips rounded and he froze, and that exquisite agony was so close Mikkel could almost taste it. He and Bjørn both spat into his palm, more than once. It wasn’t enough, could never be, but they needed this. They had gone too long pretending to be strangers. They had to remind themselves that they knew this.

But in the end, their bodies would always remember. They had known each other always, and they moved together perfectly. Bjørn’s nails dug into Mikkel’s shoulders and Mikkel felt him, felt how he took him, felt how their breaths matched as he began to thrust. They did not take, but they gave: gave air between their kisses, gave pleasure and gave pain. Mikkel tasted sugar on Bjørn’s tongue.

When they came, it shattered them; several moments passed before they built themselves back up. Mikkel helped Bjørn to his feet, straightened his uniform, smoothed his hair. He looked beautiful. Even in the guise of those they had been ordered to hate, he looked so, so beautiful.

“Merry Christmas,” he said, and it was Bjørn who smiled.


End file.
